


strawberry milkshake

by thepensword



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Grease AU, Humor, Kinda, but also not really, i say that but it's like a weird version of the 50s, like i want to say, this is vaguely grease inspired, this is....gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepensword/pseuds/thepensword
Summary: Sloane is infuriating.She’s infuriating because she’s always getting in trouble and always manages to wiggle out of punishment. She’s infuriating because it’s impossible to catch her in the act. She’s infuriating because she smells like gasoline and lavender and she smiles like she’s sharing a secret.Mostly she’s infuriating because she makes Hurley’s heart do this weird fluttery thing and it’s really uncomfortable.Also, Taako is now laughing at her.





	strawberry milkshake

**Author's Note:**

> im gay 
> 
> rated teen for swearing

Sloane is infuriating.

She’s infuriating because she’s always getting in trouble and always manages to wiggle out of punishment. She’s infuriating because it’s impossible to catch her in the act. She’s infuriating because she smells like gasoline and lavender and she smiles like she’s sharing a secret.

Mostly she’s infuriating because she makes Hurley’s heart do this weird fluttery thing and it’s really uncomfortable.

Also, Taako is now laughing at her.

“ _What?”_ says Hurley, exasperated. Taako is hunched over in the chair opposite, laughing hard enough to shake the tabletop and rattle their drinks. Hurley frowns and scoops up her strawberry milkshake so it doesn’t spill. She doesn’t bother with rescuing his chocolate one. If it spills, it’s his own damn fault and he deserves it.

“Hurley,” laughs Taako, and wipes at his eyes. “ _Hurley_. Pumpkin, sounds like you got a case of the _gay_.”

And. Well. No.

(Gay? Yes. For Sloane? Nonononono.)

“What?” says Hurley, hand squeezing tight enough around her milkshake that the ridges of the glass dig into her skin. “No, I don’t.”

Taako is wiping at his now-messy milkshake glass with a napkin and still giggling a bit. Hurley kind of hates him for it. “Sure you don’t,” he says. “Listen, take it from an experienced gay—you’ve got it bad for little miss leather-jackets-and-rebellion.”

And Hurley thinks about Sloane’s mischievous smile and the glossiness of her hair and the curve of her hips underneath her leather jacket and she thinks with a sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, Taako’s a little bit right.

(And for that she hates him even a little bit more.)

“Oh, god,” groans Hurley, and buries her face in her hands. “Taako, what do I _do?_ ”

Taako pats her head in a gesture that he probably thinks is soothing, but she knows for a fact he’s still got chocolate milkshake on his hands so it’s not exactly comforting. “There, there,” he says. “I know exactly what to do.”

“What?”

“I’m calling in a professional.”

 

* * *

 

The professional in question is Lup.

“Ok, wait,” says Hurley. She’s in Lup’s room, on her bed, wearing pajamas and allowing Taako to weave tiny braids into her short hair. “Didn’t you and Barry spend like fifty years pining before you got together?”

“It was five years,” says Lup. “But that just means I know exactly what _not_ to do.”

“Oh, great.”

“Yep,” says Lup, popping the P, and sticks her feet in Hurley’s lap, lounging back against her pillows as she does so. “Okay, so tell me about your girl.”

“She’s not _my_ anything.”

Lup kicks her gently and Hurley scowls. Being trapped in this middle-school-esque slumber party as a senior in high school is bizarre, but she knows there’s no escaping the twins and no escaping elaborating on the feelings she’s still kind of in denial about. Taako finishes the braid he’s working on and bops her nose with one finger before moving on to the next chunk of hair. “Out with it, bubbelah. Tell us about your girl.”

Hurley sighs, long-suffering. “Fine,” she says. “Her name is Sloane.”

“Leather-jackets-and-rebellion Sloane?” asks Lup, Taako’s mirror through and through. “Sloane who got suspended for street racing last year?”

“Yeah,” sighs Hurley, thinking about the sheer exhilaration in Sloane’s voice when she talks about racing, comparing it to roller coasters or to flight. (Hurley _loves_ roller coasters, just as she loves go-carts and driving with the windows down and the feel of the wind in her hair and she wonders deep down how it would feel to race someone with Sloane in the passenger seat.) She thinks, too, about how _frustrated_ she’d been that Sloane had just laughed off suspension; _Life is short, Hurls. There are bigger things to get upset about._

Why had she been so angry? Why had she cared so much?

“Oho,” says Taako. “I know that look. That’s the gay look. Lup, look, it’s the gay look.”

Lup nods sagely. “That’s definitely the gay look. And hey, Hurley, at least you don’t have bad taste. Sloane is _hot_.”

Hurley opens her mouth and lets out a sound not unlike that of a dying whale. Taako and Lup _aww_ sympathetically in almost perfect unison and Taako pats her head while Lup reaches out for her bicep.

“It’s okay, babe,” says Lup. “You’re in the company of the masters. Between Taako’s violently fast wooing of Kravitz and my five years of pining for Barry we’ll have you sorted out in no time.”

“It’s just…” Black hair blowing in the wind, mischievous grin, twinkling eyes, _loosen up, Hurls—_ “God, I hate her. She’s so...she’s just. Like, she’s always breaking the rules and getting in trouble and it’s so _stupid_ and _pointless_ and usually I can’t stand people who do stupid and pointless things, but for some reason all Sloane has to do is _look_ at me and suddenly I don’t know how to breathe and I _hate_ her.”

Taako and Lup exchange a look.

“Uh oh,” says Lup.

“It’s worse than I thought,” says Taako.

Lup sits up and grabs Hurley’s face in her palms. “Hurley, you have to ask this girl out _right now_.”

She wants to. She wants to _so badly_ , in a way she can’t really identify. She never made any sort of conscious decision on the subject but suddenly her heart is rebelling against her mind and even as her thoughts churn _no, she’s everything you hate, she drives you crazy, why—_ the pulsing in her chest and through her veins thrums with _her eyes, her voice, you want to hold her close, you want to feel that teasing smile against your skin, you want her to be yours and you want to be hers—_

Hurley makes that dying whale noise again and faceplants in a pillow. “This is so fucking stupid,” she mumbles, mouth full of fabric. Taako laughs and Lup coos and Hurley kind of wishes she was ten years old again, concerned only with the crisp new black belt she’d earned in karate class and not having to worry about overly helpful twins or infuriatingly attractive rebels.

“Don’t stress, babe,” says Lup. “We’ll get you sorted.”

“ _Hhhrgh.”_

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Friday afternoon, after school. Hurley is at the diner and she’s just finished ordering her usual—cheeseburger, fries, and, because she thinks she’s owed a treat after all this stress, a strawberry milkshake.

She sits down at the table in the corner, with the four chairs and the heart-shaped coffee stain under the enamel. The milkshake comes first, and then the burger and fries, and then Taako swoops past and sticks an extra straw into the tall glass.

“Make me proud, bubbelah,” he says, and winks, and Hurley’s heart drops all the way down into her toes just in time for Taako to disappear again and for the door of the diner to swing open.

Sloane walks in. Her hair is down around her shoulders and she’s got her jacket on. She’s also wearing tight-fitting jeans and tall black boots. She looks beautiful and badass and Hurley is slowly losing her mind.

She’s not alone, either. Lup is at her side, chatting excitedly. There’s a brief moment of eye contact and Lup winks, just like her brother had.

That’s all the warning Hurley gets.

“Oh, look, there’s Hurley,” says Lup, loud enough for her voice to carry all the way across the room. A handful of patrons stare at her and in the corner Hurley spots Magnus turning to wave. “Huh, I thought Taako was with her. Okay, you go ahead and sit down while I go hunt down my brother.”

And then she just sort of evaporates on the spot or something, because Hurley blinks and she’s gone and there are two straws in her milkshake and Sloane is making away across the diner to her table with a smile on her face that says she knows exactly what’s happening.

_Fuck._

There’s the scrape of metal over linoleum as Sloane pulls the chair back and sits down, elbows on the table and mischievous (flirty, supplies a voice in Hurley’s head that sounds frighteningly like Taako) smile already in place.

“So,” says Sloane. “Hurley.” She draws out the name as if she’s tasting each letter, enjoying the way it curls on her tongue. A shiver travels down Hurley’s spine at the sound of it and part of cries out to hear it again and again and again. “How’s it going?”

“It’s fine,” says Hurley, far too quickly, and Sloane raises one dark eyebrow. “How are you?”

Formal. Stupid. They’ve been at odds over the whole illegal racing thing and Sloane’s general disregard for rules for...god, for as long as they’ve known each other. Hurley thinks back to freshman year and catching Sloane graffiting a raven onto one of the school’s outer walls, thinks of the way she’d felt when Sloane had winked at her and disappeared into the night, taking her paint cans with her. She thinks maybe she’s been a little bit in love with Sloane this whole time.

Sloane laughs. It’s a good sound. “I’m as good as ever,” she says, and stretches her arms over her head (unfair). A glint in her eyes, a challenge in her tone—”Won another race last night. I mean duh, I win every race, but last night almost felt like an actual challenge.”

Hurley nods and desperately slurps at her milkshake. This whole situation is bullshit.

“You know,” says Sloane, and leans across the table, and puts her hand casually over Hurley’s, “I could do with a partner out on the road. Think you might be able to handle it?”

Later, Hurley will not actually be able to recall agreeing. But clearly she must have, because Sloane beams widely at her and tells her to show up under the overpass tonight, 8 sharp, _wear something you’re not afraid to get dirty, I might have a spare leather jacket you can borrow if you don’t have one, they’re very protective you know—_

Then she drops her head, drinks from the second straw in Hurley’s milkshake, and stands up from the table.

“See you tonight, Hurls,” she says, and then she’s gone, and Hurley is sitting all alone at a four-person table in a busy diner with half a strawberry milkshake and a rule-breaking, street-racing, definitely illegal probably-not-a-date scheduled for that night.

“How’d it go?” asks Lup, dropping down into the seat opposite and stealing the remaining milkshake right out of Hurley’s hands. Normally, Hurley would glare at her or try to take it back, but right now she’s a little shell-shocked.

“It went...good,” says Hurley distantly. Then, restored clarity: “Also? Fuck you, and your brother.”

And Lup throws back her head and laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun has finally set and the night has fallen like a blanket over the world. The sky is violet with light pollution and the streetlights on the overpass cast intermittent beams of gold and black over the cracked road below where a group of delinquents gather.

Hurley slides off of Lup’s moped with anxiety buzzing through her veins. Why is she here? This is a place for rebels and rulebreakers, the kids who society rejects and who reject society in turn. This is the place for those kids who drive her absolutely up the wall. Street racing is dangerous, it’s illegal, and—

And then Sloane turns around and waves at her, dark hair turned to gold in the streetlight, and Hurley’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“There’s your girl,” teases Lup in a sing-song tone of voice, and pats her on the shoulder. “Go get her.” Then she kicks the gas back on and drives away, and Hurley is left standing on the cracked pavement, weeds toeing at her boots, a bunch of rebels and delinquents turning to stare at her.

Also, Sloane, who is now heading towards her with a smile on her face. She’s wearing her jacket, of course, and her hair is swept back into a ponytail, and she is so, so beautiful.

“Hey, Hurls,” she says, and Hurley tries desperately to kick her mouth back into gear. The silence stretches for just a second beyond comfortable and Sloane tosses her head with a single huff of laughter. “You ready?”

Hurley nods, because right now that’s the best she can muster. It is only then that she notices the extra leather jacket tucked under Sloane’s arm. Sloane follows her gaze to it and smiles, holding it out for her to take. She does, unfolding it as she does so, and finds herself looking at a jacket almost identical to Sloane’s, with the familiar silver patch on the back depicting the words _The Raven_ over the outline of wings.

“Sometimes the wheels kick up rocks and stuff,” explains Sloane. “This’ll protect your arms.”

Hurley puts it on. It’s too big, of course, but it’s comfortable nonetheless.

It smells like lavender and gasoline. It smells like Sloane.

“Okay,” says Hurley.

 

* * *

 

 

All of Hurley’s reservations fall away with the wind the minute Sloane puts her foot down on the gas pedal. The car—Sloane’s pride, sleek and black and convertible with silver wings painted on the sides—surges forward with a roar of the engine and the squeal of tires over asphalt and suddenly Hurley knows what it is to fly.

There is pure exhilaration in the rush of wind through her hair, in the thrum of the car beneath her. The world zips past at lightning speed, turning faces into blurs and scenery into colors. They pass through areas of light and darkness from the streetlights high above so quickly that it creates almost a strobe effect. All of these factors combine to create a very surreal feeling, causing the world and all its troubles to fade away.

Hurley puts her arms up in the air and yells, her voice swept up by the wind and disappearing behind them as soon as she does so. Sloane’s voice joins hers in a peel of ecstatic laughter, and it feels in that moment that there is nothing else in the world but them.

The roar of an engine. Their opponent, a boy named Maarvey who Hurley vaguely recognizes from her biology class, pulls ahead with an insult shouted over his shoulder. Sloane stops laughing and curls her hands tighter around the steering wheel.

“Pull over,” says Hurley.

Sloane’s eyes dart towards her and back to the road in a rapid, incredulous motion. “What? Why the fuck—”

“I said pull over! We’re switching.”

Sloane looks like she wants to argue but pulls over anyway. They’ve barely rolled to a stop before Hurley is unlatching both of their seatbelts and shoving Sloane out of the way, slipping behind the wheel like she was made for it.

Her eyes focus on the taillights of Maarvey’s car as it rapidly get further and further away. She breathes in deeply and then she _fucking floors it_.

Sloane lets out a wordless cry of surprise as the car becomes a bullet. In her mind’s eye, Hurley can see the painted wings unfurling and flinging them forward as she urges the nose of the car onwards like a battering ram. They fly past Maarvey at breakneck speed as Hurley drives them around the very inside of the track, taking the curves so quickly and so sharply that the whole car tilts sideways just slightly. The air is filled with the smell of burning tires and car exhaust and she has never felt so alive in her life.

They roar across the finish line and Hurley slams on the brake. They spin once, twice with their momentum and she holds the steering wheel steady, keeping all four wheels on the ground until at last they roll to a stop, the undisputed winners of tonight’s race.

There is a pause, where the world is silent but for the distant sound of Maarvey’s tires as he tries futilely to catch up. Hurley is breathing hard, blood roaring in her ears, and then she turns her head sideways to meet Sloane’s gaze.

And then, as if it had been coordinated, the onlookers and the two of them all start screaming at once. Hurley is saying, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” over and over and over, and Sloane is just yelling and yelling, things like “We did it!” and “We won!” and “Holy _shit!_ ” intermingled with pure, wordless shouting. She climbs out of the car and pulls Hurley with her, swinging her around and around with the full force of her frankly impressive height. Hurley’s laughing—they both are—and when Sloane finally sets her down she feels as if her heart could burst.

“Holy shit, Hurley!” laughs Sloane, exhilarated. “That was—”

Impulse. Electricity. Exhilaration. Foolhardy, probably, and reckless, definitely, but in this moment she doesn’t care. Hurley runs a hand through her curls and takes the leap.

“Can I kiss you?”

Sloane stops and stares, eyes blown wide, jaw slack. She blinks once, twice, three times. “Oh,” she says, and runs a hand through sweaty bangs, fingers getting caught in the long pieces that hang down to frame her face and twisting, twisting, twisting. “Oh,” she says again. A beat, a breathy laugh, then—”Yeah.”

So Hurley does.

 

* * *

 

Saturday rolls around bright and sunny, and the parking lot outside the diner is full of student’s cars. They are all of varying sizes and shapes and colors, but the one that stands out the most is the sleek black convertible parked right outside the diner’s doors. On its sides are painted a pair of elegant, silver wings, and on the hood, a pair of curling ram’s horns in glistening bronze.

Inside the diner, at a table meant for four, sit two girls in leather jackets with the excitement of new love flowing through their veins. They are holding hands and smiling, and they are not taking their eyes off of each other.

The waitress walks to their table with a metal tray in hand. She smiles at them, so bright and young and in love, and they thank her as she sets down their order: one strawberry milkshake with two straws in it.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> psa: street racing bad don't do it 
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](https://thepensword.tumblr.com)


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